Fledgling
by dreaming.in.sepia
Summary: One of Clarice Starling's classmates from her childhood reminisces about the girl he knew at the Lutheran orphanage, and her secret torment. One shot, set after Silence of the Lambs.


**This story is linked into my other multi chapter fic, Returning (.net/s/7556987/1/Returning). Not excessively so, but it may answer any questions that you have after reading this (if you do decide to read it, although having got here I hope you'll excuse my presumption that you're planning to continue down the page). It isn't obligatory, but I would like to point it out. The majority of the references are in Chapter 4.**

**Anyway, happy reading and I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

><p>"Yes, I knew Clarice Starling. Knew her when she was just a little girl. We were in that orphanage together, the Lutheran orphanage in Bozeman. Although I mean, I did know her, I don't mean I knew much about her. Nobody did, she didn't let anyone get close enough to her for that. She was like a little clam, always sitting in the corner and never sharing a word or a thought. We all thought it was 'cause she was so upset, after her daddy died. All alone in the world, lots of us there felt like that for a while. She must have been real close to him, but she never talked about him to anyone. Even when we asked her. Stories about our past were our sort of currency in there, our way of getting by on the good old memories. So we asked her a lot. Not that it was a bad place mind, it was just...strange. Different and...strange. And lonely, sometimes. Old and peeling too-there wasn't much money going free for things like paint. But I'd reckon Clarice was the loneliest of us all in that old, cracked box. She never talked about anything or anyone. Don't know how she stood it, keeping all those feelings inside her like a pressure cooker. Sure she could be friendly and sociable, but you'd look her in the eye and there'd be something-something held back, a reserve, something she didn't want you to see she was thinking or feeling.<p>

But we were friends. I thought we were anyway-sat next to each other in math for two years. She was a sharp one even then, always three steps ahead of the teacher while I-well, I was three steps behind and held back a grade for it. She helped me though, always gave me tips with my homework and explained the questions to me. I 'spect she felt she had to, us both being orphanage kinds an' all. Or maybe she did it out of the kindness of her heart, I could never tell. We got teased all the time by the other kids who noticed our scrappy clothes and sharp cut hair, so we had to stick together. They had more to notice about Clarice as well, there was her manner, her shyness-not to mention her accent. They got a good few jokes out of pretending not to understand her and calling her a rube for it. Clarice never seemed to listen to them though, she was always above that-although I don't doubt she heard it in her heart and it hurt her. There was one time, I remember- another kid from the orphanage, younger than both of us, was being beaten up one day. Me an' Clarice walked past it on our way back from math. I kept walking-didn't want to get into any trouble myself and I knew those bullies packed mean right punches, but Clarice stiffened somehow-seemed alert, angry, aware. Indignant, even. She walked over and started giving those bullies a piece of her mind, telling them what she thought of her behaviour and that they should leave right now and leave this boy alone. It was the first time I'd really seen her, understood any part of her properly. She didn't have no defence up that moment, just stood in front of that kid and told them bullies to go away as best she could. They didn't, of course. They just beat her up too. I remember that though, and I think of it every so often-little 13 year old Clarice Starling standing in front of them, telling them that they were wrong and she wouldn't stand for it. I reckon she put all of us watching to shame that day.

There was only one time I ever saw Clarice scared, and that was at night. We weren't in the same rooms-separate rooms for separate genders-but I could hear her. I was just next door ,and they didn't spend much at the Lutheran orphanage- those walls were like crackers they were so thin, one good punch and you burst right through them. That happened quite a few times, actually. Every night I could hear her screaming. And she always screamed the same thing-"Run, run, run, run! Why won't you run!" Over and over again, and then she'd start whimpering and calling for her daddy to help her open the gates. Eventually I think they gave her sedatives at night so she'd stop waking everyone up, but you could tell that they didn't stop what was going on deep down in her mind. The dark circles just got bigger and blacker, until I thought her eyes were going to drown in them. She was consumed by her sadness, was that girl.

She got out though. Graduated from high school the valedictorian-that was a slap in the face for those bullies-and then went on to UVA. We were all proud of her when we heard that she was in training at the FBI. Of all places! I wanted to go and visit her, I have for ages, but I don't think she'd remember me. I couldn't forget her though. Clarice Starling is not someone you're likely to forget any time soon.

What about you though? You must know that too if you know her. Though speakin' of that-how do you know her?"

Hannibal Lecter smiled as he viewed the slightly pudgy man sitting in front of him in the red leather booth with his sweat stains under his shirt, his Montana State Bobcats hat angled backwards and his fifth beer tilted at a dangerous angle in his hand. He had found him in the nearest bar in Bozeman to the orphanage, considering that some people wouldn't have travelled far from it and hoping for some new information about his Starling to...add to his repertoire. He had certainly not been disappointed.

"Oh, I'm a new friend."

He felt the knife in his pocket, perfectly sharpened, perfectly balanced, and turned back to his companion, smiling threateningly.

"Tell me...how would you feel about coming to my place for dinner?"


End file.
